Holland Nights
by slimeball supreme
Summary: Jamar and Clarence have a chat about morality. Explaining conversation with Clarence and one of his goons during the mission 'Holland Nights' in GTA 4. Quick one shot.
_Just a quick little story to fill up things. Haven't made much, considering I'm working on a rather large project. So like... stay tuned 'n stuff._

* * *

The sun shone through the broken clouds and bathed the area in a weird glow. Though the weather was still cold and brisk, like any other Autumn day. Jamar thought about this confusing contradiction as he leaned on the railing of the building. The people below still talked, though. No weather could change that. But it was his turn to talk, now.

"Fool, Imma be straight with you - this shit ain't working."

 **East Holland Projects, Liberty City, September 20th, 2008**

"Whachu mean?"

"C, the drug game." Jamar sighed. "I'm done."

"Done? You ain't fucking done." C said, turning back to his friend. "We just beginning. The organisation practically just started, playa'."

"I know, Clarence. I know." Jamar sighed. "But we just hurtin' the hood, you know?"

"Hurtin'? We helpin'." Clarence chuckled. "The hood bleeds when we ain't here. We got them Italian cats helpin' us help them. We're just gonna be like them Italians. Them Pavanos or some shit. We make money off the heroin, and bam - we be CEOs. The Little Organisation. We can sponsor kids in the hood 'n shit."

"We ain't gonna ball like that, man, you know that."

"No I fuckin' don't, Jamar." Clarence furrowed his brow, his relaxed expression morphing into a frustrated frown in an instant. "It's just some crack. Not like we gonna be killin' the neighbours on purpose."

"That's all we doin'. We turning each and every one of these dudes into fuckin' junkies, man." Jamar started to follow suit with the present frustrations. "I'd rather work at the fuckin' corner store, fool."

"And where you gon' get yo fuckin' chains?" Clarence barked.

"I'm not. I'm done with this ego gangsta shit." Jamar winced. "I'm out."

Clarence laughed, a forced, nearly malicious laugh. Jamar could tell he found none of this funny.

"Nah, cat. You ain't done with the bangin'."

"Why ain't I done?"

"Cuz I fuckin' said so." Clarence spat. "Don't you see what we accomplishing? This is ambition. Potential. We an enterprise now, we got dignity. Just cuz we fuckin' with dumbass junkies don't mean we ain't the good guys!"

"Bruh, it obviously means we ain't the good guys. We dealin' dimebags to school kids. I'm done with that shit."

"How many times do I have to fuckin' say it, J?" Clarence scowled. "We ain't done. We ain't never done, and we won't be done 'till I can get me a nice car, a bangin' chick, and a beach house in the Carraways."

"What about the sponsorin'?" Jamar jabbed.

"That too, nigga." Clarence barked. "This shit's only temporal. We ain't gonna be dealin' dimebags fo'ever."

"Yeah we is. That's why we drug dealers and not office workers, fool."

"Sure, Jamar. Fuckin' sure."

They both stood there for a bit, refusing to look at each other. They stared down below as they leaned on the second floor's railings, overseeing the playground in the projects and the rest of Algonquin flowing out in front of them. People talked to each other downstairs, stuff about hip hop and dealing. The usual stuff. Jamar couldn't help but contemplate the mundaneness of it. How every day was the same when he wasn't dealing.

Shit, it was the same when he was dealing. Either hood rats or junkies would always want more. Sometimes they were friends, other times they were strangers. It hurt seeing customers return, looking worse than the last time they came, demanding more H at a higher price. It sickened Jamar that Clarence thought this wasn't a necessity, but a choice. An easy choice. Dealing was the only thing Clarence knew. Jamar wondered if C had ever had a job at all.

"Jamar, please." Clarence was pleading now. Typical. "Players never stop. We gon' be the biggest players in Algonquin. Maisonette 'n shit."

"I don't want money for the sake of money, C." Jamar responded. "I don' wanna hurt people to get where I wanna be."

"You'll always hurt fools. Maybe not direct but you'd still hurt some cats."

"That somehow makes it better?"

"Ye-... Well, nah." Clarence said. "That ain't the point tho'."

"Then what's the fuckin' point?"

Clarence stared at Jamar for what felt like days. His eyes had hallowed, cold and expressionless. Solemn. Empty.

"You can go if you want." He finally said.

"What?" Jamar asked, confused.

"You can get the fuck outta here if yo ass pleases." He continued. "You obviously don't like it here. No matter how much I try 'n please 'ya. But if you finna bust up our friendship over some bullshit morality shit, it ain't my fuckin' problem."

"To be honest," Jamar began. "I'd rather leave this shithole than ruin another nigga's life. I don't wanna sell shit to cats no more. I'm finished with this phony corporation bullshit, tryna build up crack like a company. Fuck this."

"Nah, you know what?" Clarence stood there, his mind racing. "Fuck you, Jamar."

"Finally. Now we gettin' somewhere." Jamar said. "Did I hit the rough patch? You ain't legit enough?"

"Fuck. You."

"Nah, mane. Nigga who should be fucked is lookin' at me."

"I'm done with your shit, J. Get the fuck outta he-"

Before Clarence could finish his sentence, his head exploded into a mixture of red mist and chunks of flesh as a bullet pummelled through his brain. His body violently plummeted to the ground, colliding with the concrete floor with a loud, wet, and surprising smack. Jamar was immediately shocked by the gunshot, and the ensuing damage - jumping behind the balcony barrier and waiting for the inevitable.

But nothing came. No second gunshot. Nothing.

So Jamar walked away, and didn't look back.


End file.
